


pretend for a moment

by darthpumpkinspice



Series: do not repent for these deeds [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Damar, Damar has regrets, Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Self-Hatred, Top Weyoun, they’re both into it they just don’t necessarily LIKE that they’re into it, tiny bit of almost fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: Damar has become entirely too familiar with his own mistakes, much to the delight of Weyoun 7.
Relationships: Damar/Dukat (mentioned), Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Damar/Weyoun 6 (implied), Damar/Weyoun 7 (Star Trek)
Series: do not repent for these deeds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084316
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	pretend for a moment

**Author's Note:**

> aka the fic in which Damar deals, poorly, with his feelings, and Weyoun is jealous & needy
> 
> this can be read as a companion/sequel piece to [fleeting reprieve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695020), but it definitely doesn't have to be
> 
> i'm also sort of headcanoning that, similar to the romans, Cardassians have some weird hang-ups about being the receptive partner during sex, so i've taken that and ran with it lol
> 
> hope you all enjoy! even though this is quite a bit less sweet than my last piece, owing to Weyoun 7 being much more of a jerk than Weyoun 6, I had such a fun time writing this - feel free to drop and kudo or comment if you like it! I'm also literally always down to discuss Weyoun & Damar too haha :)

He fucks into the Vorta, setting a pace that is fast and punishing, and, in the end, entirely futile. He feels Weyoun laughing silently underneath him, his back heaving, shoulders rising and shuddering in a rhythmic motion that could almost be mistaken for a sob.

Feverishly, Damar realizes he can’t even remember how it had started, this time. His last clear memory is of Weyoun droning on about Cardassian incompetency, his serene features juxtaposed grotesquely with the cruel, luminous gleam in his eyes. Time had seemed to slow to a crawl, and with an almost prophetic dread, Damar had felt stale contempt slither inside of him, mingling unnaturally with thoughts of a more carnal nature. This is about the point where his memory grows indistinct, but bits and pieces of what had followed float up to him – of all but dragging Weyoun back to his quarters, of stripping him of those hideous fabrics that pass as ‘clothes’, and of holding the Vorta’s hips still as he pushed his way into him. 

He does not remember when, exactly, Weyoun had started laughing. With a growl, he redoubles his efforts, and he digs his fingers into the yielding flesh at the Vorta’s waist with a bruising pressure. The thought of marking Weyoun, even in this small way, proves immediately gratifying, and he lets his eyes drift closed to the image of purple bruises scattered along pale skin. The pulse of blood pounds frantic and hot in Damar’s ears, and he snaps his hips forward in an especially vindictive thrust. 

“Enough of this,” Weyoun hisses suddenly, squirming underneath him. All traces of laughter have evaporated, and he tenses in Damar’s grip. Weyoun’s tone sharpens. “ _Damar_.” It’s a warning that rings with the weight of an order, and Damar finds himself abruptly stilling, mid-way through an aborted attempt at a thrust.

Weyoun wriggles out from under him, twisting around to press a palm to Damar’s chest and pushing him back into a seated position. His lips widen into a serpentine suggestion of a smile. “I don’t believe that was remotely satisfactory for either of us,” he says dismissively, and Damar feels something inside him die a little. With a hollow curiosity, he wonders if this is how the Vorta gets his thrills – by cutting away at Damar’s ego, one sliver at a time. Weyoun has certainly elevated insulting him into its own art form - although he’s normally better about restraining his tongue in these circumstances. 

“Speak for yourself,” Damar grumbles, wondering if it’s too late to simply put his armor back on and resolutely pretend the last hour was all a bad dream.

“Come now, Damar,” Weyoun purrs, settling himself languidly over Damar’s lap. “Don’t tell me _that_ was what you wanted? You like to play at domination, but what you _really_ crave-” a soft hand, the kind that has never known the honesty of manual labor, encircles Damar’s cock, “-is to be shown your proper place.”

Damar’s breath hitches, and he shudders as Weyoun guides him back to full hardness. Sourly, he finds himself reflecting on all the countless choices he’s made over the years that have steered him towards _this_ very moment – the worst of all possible outcomes. He’s in hell, his mind hysterically decides, he’s died and this is his sentence for all of his crimes – for Tora Ziyal, for the pact with the Dominion, for ensuring Weyoun 6’s death… all of it. 

“Perhaps,” Weyoun is musing, examining his own cock with an almost disinterested appraisal. “I should fuck you, instead.”

 _This_ snaps him back to reality as every cell in his body shouts in protest, demanding that he shove the insolent Vorta off of him, or perhaps push him back into the mattress and fuck him until the only sounds coming from that degenerate, genetically-engineered throat are inarticulate moans of pleasure. He’s sick of Weyoun’s silken eloquence – of that cool voice, almost perfect enough to be artificial, were it not for the derisive inflection that always materializes when Weyoun is speaking to him. For once, he would like to see Weyoun 7 ruled by nothing loftier than the base, animal sensations Damar knows he’s physically capable of – but whatever floating remnants of primitive DNA may still exist in the Vorta have always been dormant during these encounters.

“Did you hear me, Damar?” Weyoun asks with sardonic, exaggerated patience. Damar, again, finds himself reflecting on what he _should_ do. He is still a _Cardassian_ , and he still has his _pride_ but – he swallows thickly, feeling the acid burn of shame lodge in his throat as his neck ridges flush – it seems he cannot even prove himself a worthy Cardassian in _this_. The humiliation scorches through his body, racing from esophagus to navel until – with the finality of absolute failure – the heat of it settles between his legs, and his cock grows almost painfully stiff.

“Fine,” Damar hisses, loathing gathering in his mouth like bile.

“Delightful,” Weyoun purrs. Edged with a sharp mockery, his smile cuts deep, as effective as an assassin’s blade. That smile dances with the memory of his predecessor, reopening the half-healed wound Weyoun 6’s death had left behind. This is the most devastating weapon in the Vorta’s armory, and he utilizes it to brutal effect. His cruel mouth, shaped in the exact likeness of Weyoun 6, silently taunts Damar, and he finds himself felled by the Vorta once again, brought down by nothing more than a ruthless twist of his lips.

“On your knees, if you don’t mind,” Weyoun says brightly, as if he’s asking for something as routine as a cup of raktajino. Damar obeys – hating his body for its ready, eager compliance. He blames it on lingering muscle memory, instilled by Dukat and all the other Gul’s that had come before him, but doubt swims up to surface in his mind – he has always been obedient, but he cannot recall ever being so grossly _amenable_ to this particular act. He drowns that doubt before it has time to spread, pushing it under into the recesses of his subconscious where it belongs.

“Did you want Weyoun 6 to do this to you?” the Vorta asks conversationally. At Damar’s silence, he adds, “the defective one” as if Damar is stupid enough to have already forgotten. Damar’s eyes squeeze shut and he tries to pretend this is all some kanar-induced delirium – a nightmare he’ll awaken from soon – as he hears the distinctive sound of lubricant being squeezed onto a waiting palm.

Weyoun nudges his legs further apart, sighing in frustration as he does. “Come now, Damar,” he coaxes, in a poisonous tone that drips with honeyed disdain. “I assume Dukat taught you how to do this.”

Gul Dukat had merely been the last, and least objectionable, in a long line of commanding officers that had taken full advantage of the privileges their rank had afforded them. Damar’s body still remembers how to position itself appropriately, how to angle itself up invitingly, and he finds himself fighting a losing battle to tamp down on those reflexes that have long ago become automatic. He has no desire to participate in his own degradation any more than is strictly necessary… despite what his cock, still irritatingly at rigid attention, seems to argue.

“Do you ever stop talking?” he finally snaps. Ready to hurry this along, he relents slightly, shifting his weight forwards onto his forearms, and letting his hips cant up.

As he probably should’ve expected, Weyoun proceeds to ignore him. “Tell me,” he starts cheerfully, pressing his first finger past Damar’s entrance. Damar finds himself treading a difficult balance as he simultaneously attempts to relax his body while also mentally bracing himself for whatever verbal game Weyoun has concocted. “Do you miss him? My predecessor?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Damar sneers, staring stoically forward, grateful he does not have to look Weyoun in the eyes. Weyoun adds another dexterous finger and begins to work him open, and Damar grinds his teeth together until his jaw feels as if it’s in acute danger of shattering. He focuses on the bone white sheets under his fists, and wills away unwelcome thoughts. When he is appropriately steadied, he forces out a bark of laughter. “He was a traitor. I serve Cardassia.”

“You mean you serve the _Dominion_ ,” Weyoun corrects sharply. He hesitates in his ministrations, and seems to reconsider something, his voice softening minutely. “Not that there is a difference, of course.” He pumps his fingers into Damar again, and then, evidently satisfied with his progress, withdraws them to line his cock against Damar’s entrance. “Are you more upset that he betrayed you…” he begins, a strange note entering his voice – something that is a cousin to anger, but too soft and imploring around the edges to be mistaken for that emotion. “…or that he didn’t _ask you_ to come with him?”

Damar chokes back a curse, refusing to give Weyoun the satisfaction of a reaction. It is now that the Vorta chooses to push inside of him, and he gasps as Weyoun’s cock slowly sinks into his body. Weyoun begins to move at an unhurried pace, and the slow, gradually building friction of it feels almost unfairly good. He does not _want_ to like this – this is an act of submission, a sacrifice of flesh; something to be endured, not enjoyed. He had enjoyed it with Dukat, of course, but that was different, Dukat was his superior, and obedience to a higher authority is a worthy, _pleasurable_ pursuit on its own. But this – this is wrong. And yet somehow he finds himself pushing back up to meet Weyoun’s thrusts, trying to take as much of the Vorta as he can get.

“You Cardassians are a surprisingly sentimental race,” the new Weyoun states.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Damar spits out, his breath ragged. At this point, he’d rather it was literally anyone else fucking him – he’d even let that obnoxious Bajoran woman, or the smooth-faced Founder trade places with Weyoun. Or even both, at the same time – he’d gratefully withstand being splayed between them as their plaything if it meant an end to his current predicament. He winces at that thought, picturing the Bajoran’s haughty, sneering face, and reconsiders.

“Am I not enough?” Weyoun 7 asks, and there can be no mistaking it this time – the rough trace of hurt that creeps into his words. His fingers crawl along the ridges of Damar’s bowed neck, the touch startlingly tender. His next thrust is slow and precise, and with a tormenting deliberation he pulls back out almost fully, enough to provoke a weak whimper from Damar. “I could be enough.”

Damar shivers as Weyoun’s free hand catches in his hair, threading through the strands and lightly tugging on them. His neck arches of its own volition, and a soft keening sound rises, unprompted, from his throat. He hasn’t even touched himself, but his cock is dripping pre-cum, and his neck burns almost as intensely as the cock that’s still gently rocking into him; this part of the Vorta is white-hot, enough that he feels like he’s being branded from within.

Weyoun nuzzles into the now-exposed side of his neck, generous with his affection in this moment, mouthing at the submissively bared skin, kissing up to his jaw. The fingers in Damar’s hair release, gliding up instead along the muscles in his back, greedily exploring Damar’s body in a way he is unused to. If this were any other lover, he would take these overtures as signs of desperation for approval, of some plaintive need for recognition, but this is Weyoun – and one of his greatest talents has always been his ability to leverage his own vulnerability to manipulate others. Manipulation comes to the Vorta species as naturally as breathing – they do it as freely as Klingons make war, as readily as Orions spread their legs. Damar _knows_ this… but that knowledge seems rather distant now, muffled under the thick haze blanketing over him, as he steadily builds towards an impending release. The promise of cumming like this – of having Weyoun’s cock draw him, with attentive care, right past the edge – remains humiliating, but the mind-numbing friction, coupled with the myriad of gentle caresses have had the combined effect of robbing Damar of his normal sensibilities, and the humiliation has now warped upon itself into something unfathomably erotic. His orgasm shines like a subspace beacon on the periphery of his senses, a siren’s call offering him the promise of momentary sanctuary – and he realizes, with something like relief, that he is too far beyond the realm of dignity to give an iota of a fuck about Weyoun’s motives, or the emotional ramifications of his own unseemly surrender. He just wants – he _only_ wants –

And right here, right now, right when Damar has finally shed the last pretense of resistance, Weyoun makes his final demand. “Tell me I’m enough,” he croons, and Damar thinks – dazed – that the Vorta has been waiting for this moment, for this weakness of his to be exposed, as watchfully as viper hidden in the sand.

He dimly hears someone pleading in a broken voice, and it takes him a second to realize it’s his own. “ _Weyoun_. You are enough.”

The Vorta guides him upright, until Damar’s back is flush against his chest. The new position is dangerously intimate, verging on being outright sensual, and he wonders if it is his imagination that the Vorta smells faintly of desert night blossoms. Weyoun’s warm breath tickles against the nape of his neck. “I doubt you’ll share that opinion tomorrow,” he murmurs, in a tone Damar does not have the mental bandwidth to interpret.

Damar does not know how to respond to that, and he’s too close to the brink to manufacture a half-way convincing lie. He has always left deception to other men – wordplay has never been his forte. Fortunately, Weyoun only lets the silence linger between them for a moment before he tilts his head up to catch Damar’s mouth in a kiss that is painfully soft. Damar refuses to let it remain so for long. He kisses him in the same fervent, desperate way he guzzles down kanar after an unwilling day of sobriety, kisses him hard enough to let himself pretend this is a battle, that they are _fucking_ instead of making love. Weyoun disentangles from the kiss, depriving Damar of even that comforting illusion, and reaches a graceful hand between his legs. Weyoun rubs at Damar’s cock even as his hips thrust up with mathematical precision, maintaining their measured pace as Damar is pulled inexorably towards release. It is a mercy when it comes, it is deliverance, and when he is spent he all but collapses face-first onto his stomach, suddenly boneless.

Weyoun slips out of him not long after – he is not certain whether the Vorta came, and there is no reliable way to tell – embarrassment is starting to creep back into place and the thought of _asking_ Weyoun whether or not he finished, like some Bajoran whore in need of approval, sends a cold chill down his spine. He can almost picture the Vorta’s ringing, scornful laughter, and the mental image of it alone is mortifying. He lets himself sink against his sheets – too damp now from bodily emissions to be especially comfortable - and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the presence of the Vorta still hovering beside him. Evidently unsatisfied with no longer being the center of attention, Weyoun begins to massage his shoulders and back. There is a mocking, too-light quality to his touch that has Damar tensing up, instantly undoing any of the usual benefits a massage would normally confer. This is certainly the least relaxing massage he has ever experienced, and it doesn’t help that Weyoun is doing an abysmal job of it – whether out of ignorance of the finer points of Cardassian anatomy or intentional neglect, Damar cannot be sure. Damar breathes in deeply, entertaining himself with the fantasy of being massaged by a cadre of Trill men and women instead of a single, hateful little Vorta. He’s not very familiar with the Trill species – but Quark had showed him some holosuite productions featuring them during his time on the briefly reclaimed Terok Nor, and he’d liked what he’d seen –. Weyoun’s fingers suddenly slip – probably intentionally, out of spite for being ignored – and there is a sudden jab into a nerve cluster.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Damar snarls, jerking upright as if zapped by an electric baton. He looks accusingly at Weyoun, and the Vorta flashes an unrepentant smile that only confirms Damar’s suspicions of it being a calculated act of muscular sabotage. He sits upright and rubs at his lower back, glaring at Weyoun. “Do you need something?”

 _Just my clothes and the door_ he prays Weyoun will say. Instead, the Vorta blinks expectantly at him, and starts to gather some of the rumpled sheets around himself. With a muted dread, Damar begins to realize Weyoun has no immediate plans to leave, and if anything, looks like he’s just getting started making himself comfortable. As if on cue, Weyoun pulls a discarded pillow from the wreckage formerly known as Damar’s bed, and props it up behind himself. Briefly, Damar weighs the pros and cons of simply yanking the Vorta from his bedroom and chucking him out into the hallway, before disregarding it. The likelihood of Weyoun retaliating would be astronomically high, and he’d rather not contemplate what form that retaliation would take. 

“I have kanar,” Damar offers after an awkward pause. He frowns. “And… water, I think.”

“How very kind. Water would be lovely,” Weyoun coos, and Damar feels the telltale signs of an encroaching headache begin to pulse above his left brow.

When he returns, Weyoun’s glass of water in one hand, and a bottle of kanar in the other, he finds the Vorta has sprawled out even more dramatically, forcing Damar to squeeze closely against him in order to sit on the bed himself. Wordlessly, he shoves the water into Weyoun’s waiting hands, and begins to drink from the kanar bottle, each mouthful bringing him closer to that promised land of anesthetized bliss.

Weyoun takes a delicate sip from his own drink, and casts a disapproving stare in his direction. “I’m disappointed by your choice in beverage.”

“Your concern for my health is noted,” Damar says, taking another swig. “And,” he adds, smirking around the rim of the bottle, “quite touching.”

Weyoun gives him an unreadable look, and is quiet for a beat. But it’s not long before he’s chattering again about a slew of inane topics – bouncing between snippets of gossip he’s overheard, to previous assignments his line of clones has had, to outlandish predictions about the war. It is as if he wants them to pretend to be friends, to parody, briefly, some sort of affectionate normalcy.

And Damar indulges him, because he is lonely, because the Vorta’s body is terribly warm against his, and because in this moment Weyoun 7 reminds him of dead, defective Weyoun 6. And so he laughs with the Vorta and shares in the gossip and speculations of the war, letting himself fall into the sort of post-coital rapport he has not experienced – with anyone – in far too long. And later, because he is evidently a masochistic fool who can’t resist an opportunity to punish himself, he pulls Weyoun into his arms and holds him close, letting their breathing fall into a steady, synchronized rhythm.

He knows he will regret this in the morning. But for now he presses a lazy, sleepy kiss to Weyoun’s slackening mouth, and allows himself to savor the simple luxury of a lover curled up against him. When he falls asleep not long after, warm from the secondhand heat of the Vorta’s body, he dreams of his mistakes. 

**Author's Note:**

> now featuring a sequel! [take solace from guilt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321032)
> 
> I also now have a multi-chapter story featuring Dayoun, 3 years after the Dominion war, in the same universe as this series;) [march forward to sin again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586445/chapters/70059906)


End file.
